He said, stunned, “Someone dropped a bomb on it from above. How is that possible?”
Nicholas stepped into the room and caught his father’s eye. “A drone. That’s how.”
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
My falcon now is sharp and passing empty, and till she stoop she must not be full-gorged, for then she never looks upon her lure.
—William Shakespeare, The Taming of the Shrew
Dawson Place
Notting Hill, London
Isabella was humming as she put the finishing touches on her face—there, a bit of red lipstick—and shut off the light in the bathroom the very moment the doorbell rang. Perfect timing. Gil was always prompt, bless him. He’d been gone for a week on a shoot, and she couldn’t wait to see him. Though why he was ringing the bell was beyond her. This was his place, too.
She hurried to the door, flung it open.
“Hello, sexy lady.”
She saw the flowers in his hand, the bottle of wine tucked under his arm, and grinned.
“My arms were full. I couldn’t get my key out.”
“Get in here so I can hug you. Now.”
“You get one press conference and suddenly you rule the world. Grab my suitcase, and I’m all yours.”
When she got the flowers, the wine, and his suitcase out of the way, she threw herself into his arms. She loved his kisses, and this kiss, she thought, he smelled of the sea. It was hard to pull herself away, but she did, finally, knowing the lipstick was already gone, and she wondered why she’d bothered in the first place.
She reached for the wine, but he put the flowers in her hands instead.
“You take care of these. I’ll handle the wine.”
“How was the trip?”
“Long. Remind me not to get a wild hair to go deep-sea fishing again anytime soon. Those guys are nuts, but man, I got some photos that are going to blow your mind. I’m telling you, babe, these are National Geographic worthy. I’ll upload during dinner, so you can see them in real time before I start the edits. There are some pretty awesome shots.”
He popped the SD card into the computer, and the photos began uploading. She joined him at the desk.
“This is going to take a while.” Gil started playing with her hair, brushing it back off her face, and kissed her again, slowly. “Whatever you have in the oven smells terrific, but if you don’t mind—”
“It’s chicken tetrazzini, the oven is already on warm, and it will keep just fine.”
* * *
An hour later, the tetrazzini finally made it to the table. They toasted each other and drank. “Perfect, absolutely perfect. What more can I ask? We made love, we’re about to eat my amazing tetrazzini. A perfect end to the day.”
He looked oddly excited, almost hyper, which wasn’t like him. “Gil, when do you have to ship out again? Don’t tell me it’s tomorrow morning.”
“Oh, no, I’m here for at least two weeks. I have some things I want to do.” He looked away, toward the door, and she felt a jolt, a strange disconnect. What was he thinking? What was going on here?
He pushed his plate away.
“Isabella, I—”
The doorbell rang.
Gil waved toward it. “Ignore that. I want to talk to you. I missed you, Isabella, so much. I don’t want to be apart from you like this ever again.”
Her smile probably lit up the whole room, maybe even the block. “What are you saying?”
“I’m saying I want to make things official. You’re everything I have ever wanted. You’re, well, you’re everything to me. You make me so happy.”
The doorbell dinged again, and he looked at his watch. He cursed, unusual for him. “They’re early.”
“Who’s early? Gil, what’s going on?”
Gil dropped to one knee, reached into his pocket, and pulled out a diamond ring that glittered and winked in the light.
Isabella gasped, then dropped down next to him, threw her arms around him.
“Yes!”
Gil started to laugh. “I didn’t ask you yet.”
“So ask already,” she said, nuzzling into his chest. He did smell of the sea, and hope, and vanilla and something cedar, and of her and them, and she was never going to forget this moment, never going to forget how his beard tickled her cheek.
Gil put a hand under her chin, drew her face up so she could see his eyes. He whispered, “Will you marry me? Because I want to marry you, Isabella.”
“Yes, I will marry you.”
He kissed her, a contract sealed, then put the ring on her finger. It was a perfect fit, he’d borrowed one of her rings a month ago to make sure the size was going to be right. He was so happy he thought he might burst, and Isabella was moving her hand this way and that in the light to make the diamond sparkle.
The door rang again.
Laughing now, Gil shouted, “Okay, okay, I’m coming.”
“You probably have some weird mariachi band out there, ready to burst in and serenade us, don’t you?”
“Not exactly, no. This particular moment was meant for us alone.” He kissed her on the nose and went to the door. “But now—”
He flung open the door. He hadn’t hired a mariachi band but a photographer to show them photos of the engagement from the video camera he’d stashed in the kitchen, then take a few more for posterity. He’d been planning this for weeks. The photographer was early, but who cared?
But it wasn’t the photographer on the other side of the door. He didn’t recognize the man standing there—tall and swarthy with round gold glasses, a brown beard, and sandy-brown hair. But Isabella put her hand on Gil’s back and said, “Dr. Bruce? What are you doing here?”
Roman Ardelean had flowers in his hands and a wide, welcoming smile on his face. He took in the scene—the candles, the dinner dishes on the table, the flowers in their blue vase. His smile faded. “I wasn’t expecting you to have company.”
Gil stuck out a hand. “Gil Brooks. I’m Isabella’s fiancé. Well, her fiancé since two minutes ago.”
If she could, she’d slam the door in his face. Whatever did this disturbing man want? She said, trying to hide the distaste she felt, “Gil, this is Dr. Bruce, a Voynich scholar and friends with Persy. We met yesterday at the museum. Is there something I can help you with, Dr. Bruce?”
Even though she made no move to invite him in, tension bled into the room. Gil’s back straightened. “We were just finishing dinner, or we’d invite you in. Surely you can discuss this tomorrow. We’re having a bit of a celebration.”
Bruce’s voice was formal and remote. “I’m sorry to interrupt. Yes, since I see you’re very busy now, we can certainly discuss the issue tomorrow at the museum. Before I go, I’d love a glass of water, if you wouldn’t mind. I have a long trip home.” He shook his umbrella to make the point, scattering water on her foyer floor.
Isabella didn’t want him in her apartment, didn’t want him anywhere near her, ever again, but Gil said, “Sure, it’s in the kitchen. Come with me.”
Without hesitation, Bruce was through the door and heading to the kitchen as if he knew exactly where it was. But this man wasn’t supposed to even know where she lived, much less how her flat was laid out. Something was wrong. She shut the front door and followed the men.
She caught sight of a glitter, and after another glance and a smile at her left hand, walked down the hallway. Spring, they’d be married in the spring. She wished her mother were still alive. She’d like Gil.
There was a loud grunt from the kitchen. She rounded the corner, but her mind couldn’t catch up with what she was seeing. Gil, on the floor, blood on his neck. Dr. Bruce standing over him, a manic grin on his face, blood on the lenses of his glasses. She was rooted to the spot, staring at Gil’s pale face. He wasn’t moving, his lips bubbling with a froth of red, eyes already staring. She yelled, “No!” and then Dr. Bruce struck her cheek, and she went down hard on her back, something sticky running down her face. She registered that he’d struck her—but then Gil, no, not Gil. She saw Dr. Bruce standing over her, a horrible smile cracking his face in two, before the darkness took her.
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
Drummond House
Barton Street, Westminster